A Perverse Crusade
by r4ven3
Summary: I'd long ago promised myself I'd put together another one shot featuring Ruth and Ros - a favourite pairing of mine – but not wanting to overdo a good thing I have waited a while to revisit these two. The challenge has been to concoct a different scenario for them to rub together in their own unique way. I hope you enjoy.


Friday evening – mid September 2010 – London:

Had she been asked after the fact Ruth couldn't have said how it was that she and Ros Myers came to be sitting alone at a table in a London pub, their colleagues having wandered off, leaving them to their own scratchy non-relationship. Ruth looks around the vast space, but she can't see them, and she never knows what to say to Ros who, by some trick of fate or fortune, had survived the hotel bombing, battered, but mostly unchanged by her dance with death.

"This is fun," Ros says at last, her eyes wandering around the room, perhaps, like Ruth, hoping the others will soon return to their table.

"I can't imagine where everyone went," Ruth replies, desperately hoping that _someone_ – anyone really – soon joins them.

"Perhaps the men needed company in the loo," Ros replies, "you know, like women."

Ruth suppresses a giggle at her mental image of the men all standing in a line at the urinal, checking out one another's assets. "Are you still experiencing pain?" she asks politely.

Slowly and deliberately, Ros turns her head to gaze at Ruth. "Only when I contemplate the pointlessness of the intelligence service."

"That's harsh."

"The service creates infinitely more chaos than it prevents," Ros says bluntly, "and I should know." She reaches for her glass of neat vodka before tipping it from side to side while watching the clear liquid slosh inside the glass. "It's an expensive and dangerous indulgence which only serves to provide employment for a bunch of thrill-seekers and undiagnosed mental cases." Ruth has her mouth open, ready to defend the members of Harry's team, not all of whom fit Ros's description, when Ros continues calmly. "That thought occurred to me only seconds before the bomb detonated." She takes a careful sip from her glass of vodka. "The threat of imminent death clarifies the mind. It's the universal leveller. In the end God cares little about our status or the size of our bank account … and other things."

Ruth is struck wordless. Ros mentioning God is something she had never expected to hear, and doesn't expect to hear her articulate in the future. While Ros may on occasion wax philosophical, she's far too cynical to take a serious religious stance.

"Harry was beside himself," Ruth muses, almost to herself.

"I suppose I should offer him an apology for that," Ros replies.

"None of it was your fault, Ros. It was several hours before we discovered you'd made it. He's just happy you lived through it."

"It'll take more than crumbling bricks and mortar to kill me, although being burned at the stake would probably do it." Ros moves in her chair so that she is sitting up straight. All her movements are deliberate, as though she's had to relearn how to move her body in space. "You know .. it's far harder to lose someone you care about than it is to face your own death." Ruth nods, knowing Ros is probably right. "All our colleagues who have passed … I'd trade my own life in an instant if it meant they could all return."

That's easy to say when you know it can never happen, but Ruth chooses to keep that thought to herself. She nods, hoping Ros is open to sharing more pearls of wisdom. She longs to ask whether she had travelled down a tunnel towards the light, and was she visited by her grandparents or dead colleagues, and did they tell her that she needed to go back because there was more for her to do in her life. But she and Ros are not close enough for that line of questioning.

They sit in silence for several minutes, but this time they are each comfortable in the presence of the other. Ruth feels she should break their silence, although she has little to offer. She is relieved when Ros speaks. "You know," she says, "while I was lying in that rubble, conscious, but unable to move, I allowed my mind to wander."

"But were you not in pain?"

"I was beyond pain. My body felt numb, especially my legs. I assumed I'd lost them. My mind took me to some odd places. I even thought about you and Harry."

"That must have been a fleeting thought."

"On the contrary. You and Harry are a puzzle which requires hours of contemplation. Unfortunately I was rescued before I was able to fully comprehend the phenomenon of two people who obviously care for each other, and yet can't manage to get it together in the real world."

Ruth feels herself squirm in her chair. While she'd decided she should no longer be rattled by anything she has to say, Ros has trodden a little too close to something fragile, something which is none of her business. "There really is nothing at all for you to be thinking about," Ruth says, she hopes with suitable conviction. She can hardly tell Ros to shut-up, can she? Not when she's yet to be fully fit, and possibly in pain.

"I heartily disagree, Ruth. As a spy, and a fine one, even if I do say so myself, I suspect I know more about your relationship with one another than you know yourself."

"How can you possibly know about something which doesn't exist?" Ruth keeps her voice steady, although her hands are tightly clasped in her lap, beneath the table, away from Ros's gaze.

"That's almost word for word what Harry said."

"You brought this up with _Harry_?" Does she have a death wish? "When?" Of course, despite her outrage, Ruth's curiosity has been piqued.

"I was still in hospital and high on painkillers when I raised the subject, so my level of discernment was a notch below par. Harry denied having any feelings for you, but I could tell he was lying."

"Harry wouldn't lie to you."

"Harry lies to everybody, but mostly he lies to himself."

Whilst knowing deep inside herself that Ros is telling the truth, Ruth just can't let the subject lie. What if she shares her suspicions with Dimitri, or Lucas? "You can't be going around spreading malicious rumours," she says quietly.

"Raising the subject with both you and Harry is hardly spreading rumours." Which is when Ros leans forward in her chair, silently demanding that Ruth give her eye contact. "If, by some miracle of time and space, I were to meet the love of my life, I would hang on to him with all my strength. Chances are I'd tie him up, and keep him in my basement … if I had a basement, which I don't. In that case I guess the bedroom would have to do."

With Ros's declaration, Ruth has formed a mental image of some faceless man being found bound and gagged in a shady basement. As outraged as she should feel on several levels, she finds that she is smiling.

"What's so funny?" Ros asks quietly.

"You. I could never tie up any man I … loved."

"It's a metaphor, Ruth. I used it to -"

"I know why you used it. You think I don't understand metaphor?"

"Of course you understand metaphor. You've been to Oxford."

"I -"

Ruth's is saved from having to argue further by Lucas North placing a fresh glass of white wine on the table in front of her. "Bottoms up, Ruth. It's Friday night, and you should be well on the way to being comprehensively pissed." He then turns towards Ros. "And you, my dear, are coming with me."

Lucas reaches a hand towards Ros, who – surprisingly, Ruth thinks – takes it, allowing him to help her from her chair. "You realise that dancing is out of the question," she says with a lift of one eyebrow.

"Where we're going you only have to sit there and look interested."

Ros casts Ruth a look of desperation, and she mouths the word, _Help!_ Then they are both gone, Ros walking carefully, and with a slight limp, while Lucas guides her with his hand at her back. For a brief moment Ruth envies their ease with one another. Were that her and Harry they'd be walking apart, as if touching one another may upset the earth's magnetic field. Ruth sighs heavily under a wave of sadness and regret. To distract herself from her own thoughts she takes a careful sip of the wine Lucas had bought her. It is cold and sharp – just the way she likes it.

* * *

Wine finished, Ruth leaves the hotel, heading for the nearest bus stop. Stepping onto the pavement she turns up the collar of her coat, hoping it affords some protection against the crisp night air. Her colleagues had not returned to the table, and nor had Harry arrived, despite his earlier promise to be there by seven. When she arrives at her stop it has just gone eight, so he's probably already at home, his feet up, glass of whiskey by his elbow, the TV on with sound muted, not that she is familiar with his nightly routine. She begins composing a text message to him, but after three rambling sentences she deletes what she's written, telling herself she'll call him in the morning.

Ruth had long ago decided that to pursue any level of intimacy with Harry would be an act of poor judgement. They are both too damaged, he has a complicated relationship history, and him being her boss presents a challenge-too-far were they ever to establish a partnership of equals. With Ros's survival, Ruth has begun to see that miracles _can_ happen, and just because something is difficult, it doesn't mean it should never be attempted. She is beginning to come around to accepting that Harry may be good for her, and perhaps she can be good for him. All it needs is for him to rekindle his interest in her.

* * *

Having turned on the oven when she'd arrived home, Ruth had quickly showered before changing into jeans and a baggy windcheater - her usual Friday-night-at-home attire. Having placed a lasagna in the oven, she is surprised when her phone rings. The only person who calls her of a Friday night is her mother, and given Elizabeth and David are on holiday in New Zealand, it's unlikely to be her.

Grabbing the phone from the table top, she is shocked (and pleased) to see the name of the caller. "Harry?" she says warily. "You didn't make it to the pub." Ms Obvious is now in the room!

"I did, but only Lucas and Ros were there, so I decided to leave. I'm -" Ruth hears the hesitation in his voice, and hopes he's not the bearer of bad news. "I was on my way home when I thought that maybe you might like a bite to eat .. somewhere close to your flat."

Ruth is surprised to find she's smiling. "How about _in _my flat. As we speak there's a home-made lasagna in the oven."

"That sounds .. wonderful. Do you have garlic bread?"

"No, but I'm about to make a salad, and I only have a half bottle of Lambrusco."

When Harry arrives he comes bearing garlic bread and two bottles of light red. He has removed his tie, and she shows him where to hang his coat.

"I hope you're hungry," she says, showing him into the kitchen. "The lasagna is almost ready, and there's enough to feed six."

* * *

Ruth is surprised further when they have finished eating, and Harry removes their plates and cutlery from the table, enquiring where he should scrape the leftovers. She hadn't pegged him as a domesticated man. Harry is more Action Man, or Moody Man Of Few Words. Domesticated Man is very welcome in her flat.

He tops up their wine glasses before again taking his seat opposite her.

"I'm sorry I didn't make it to the pub on time," he says, watching his wine while he swirls it around inside the glass. This is his second apology on the subject.

"You can hardly ask the Foreign Minister to ring back tomorrow because you're expected at the pub," she says lightly. After three glasses of wine, Ruth has made herself a cup of herbal tea.

"I half expected you all to have gone home. Ros and Lucas were watching a snooker tournament in one of the back rooms. They were about to leave when I arrived, so they joined me for a last drink."

"Did Ros .. _say_ anything?"

"About the snooker, or ..?"

"About speaking to me."

"Not really, although she hinted that you'd hung around waiting for me to arrive."

Ruth feels a sudden surge of outrage. _Bloody Ros!_ "She … said some things."

Harry watches her, waiting for her to say more. "Go on," he says carefully.

"She suggested ..." but she can't finish that sentence. What will Harry think of her? No doubt he'll consider her certifiable, which in all probability she is.

He carefully places his glass on the table in front of him. "Tell me, Ruth. I'd already surmised that since the hotel bombing Ros is on some sort of perverse crusade to push us together."

"You mean you and me?"

Harry nods. He still watches her closely, his expression unreadable. Ruth breaks eye contact, focusing on her tea, turning the mug so that the handle is on the other side, closer to her left hand, which is a dumb thing to do, given she's right-handed.

"Ruth?"

"She said that when she was lying in the rubble of the hotel, unable to move, she thought about us - you and me - and how we always manage to .. not get our act together." Ruth lifts her eyes to see the shadow of a smile lifting the corners of Harry's lips. "I suspect she made that up, or perhaps she was hallucinating."

"They all know, Ruth. The team. Every one of them knows about us."

"What's there to know? There _is_ no us." And in that moment, Ruth admits to herself that she very much wants there to be an `us'.

"Of course there's an us. If there is no us why did you invite me inside your home to share this delightful meal?"

Ruth nods. He has a point there. "Would you like sweets, Harry? I have ice cream."

"I'd like sweets, yes, but I'll pass on the ice cream." His eyes focus fully on her, although his eyes glisten playfully.

"What does that mean?" Of course, she has an idea.

Harry slowly gets to his feet, and deliberately moves to her side, where he leans down, placing one palm on the table in front of her, and with his free hand, he turns her chin towards him. Ruth is not surprised when he places a gentle kiss on her lips, but then is annoyed when he begins to move away from her. She quickly turns towards him, sliding one hand over his shoulder, her fingers grasping the back of his neck, and drawing his head closer to her once more. As Harry lifts her from her chair and slides both his arms around her waist, Ruth suspects he'd planned the whole manoeuvre at the get-go, the cunning sod. She can't possibly reprimand him for his forward planning, not when he is kissing her so thoroughly, a growl emanating from deep in his throat.

Far too soon, the kiss ends. Ruth is a little miffed. "Is that all?" she finds herself saying, her forehead puckered in a frown.

"That's just the curtain raiser," he says, leaning down once more to kiss her, but this time he kisses her with more conviction, and soon they teeter on the cusp of passion, one of Harry's hands gliding towards her buttock, pulling her against him. When she feels him about to pull away Ruth knows he is right. It is only a few hours ago that she'd decided to give Harry a chance. She hadn't planned to drag him to the bedroom at the first opportunity, although were he to again kiss her like that, they'd be up the stairs post-haste.

"It must be time for coffee," Ruth says at last.

Harry nods. "That's generally what comes after the dessert course. I'll make it."

And he does. Ruth mentally gives him another gold star for domestication.

Minutes later they are back in their chairs across the table from one another, the kissing behind them, coffee on the table in front of them.

"Maybe I should send Ros flowers," Ruth muses, "you know, for .. helping us along." Harry grins, something Ruth thinks he should do more often. "What?" she asks. "What did I say?"

"You said `us', Ruth. You referred to you and me as `us'. Only a few minutes ago you said there was no -"

"I know what I said. I was wrong. There now is an us."

"Are you happy about it?" To Ruth's ears, Harry sounds nervous, unsure of himself.

She nods and smiles. "I'm very happy about it." She takes a careful sip of her coffee. "And I'm looking forward to more kisses." She speaks the words quickly, and her words run into one another.

"Could you repeat that, please Ruth?"

"I said, I'm looking forward to more kissing."

"That's what I thought you said."

"And you can accommodate that?"

"So long as you're not too demanding, Ruth. I wouldn't want to get broken lips."

This time Ruth giggles, watching Harry over her coffee cup. Not only is he domesticated, but he is also fun. _And_ he's a very good kisser. "I'll endeavour to control myself then."

"You understand, Ruth, that this then means we're dating. The state of being an `us' is .. binding."

Put like that Ruth has a brief moment of panic, but she pushes it down, where it can never again cause her to doubt Harry and his motives. She and Harry Pearce are dating. What more could she possibly want?


End file.
